Reasons (un)Known
by PRAUS
Summary: It's three o'clock in the morning. Lithuania just wants to sleep, Prussia wants answers, and Russia wants something strong to drink. Who knew Perestroika would end up like this? One-shot. Russia/Prussia (if you squint). Tie in with "Soul to Take."


**March 1990**

A bell ring cut through the air, pulling him from sleep. It was distant and muffled and Lithuania had been enjoying his dream – he had taken Belarus to the ballet – but that goddamn ringing ruined it.

Lithuania had been sleeping soundly, deeply – something he was starting to get used to – and he didn't much care to have that little luxury stolen away from him so readily by a ringing phone. But after fifty – no, sixty? – years living in Russia's house, he had been trained to recognize that sound, however far away and muted, and to respond to it.. Like a fucking dog, he thought bitterly.

Lithuania rolled over, groaned, pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes to clear what sleep remained. He sat up, blinking in his darkened room, eyes adjusting to discern shapes and shadows as he swung his legs down.

The bright blue digital readout on his bedside clock guided his eyes toward it like a beacon. Lithuania squinted to read, his eyes blinking furiously at the little pricks of light.

3:01.

Three – oh – fucking – one.

Lithuania rubbed his forehead in exasperation.

Who the hell in their right mind would be calling at three in the morning?

The phone rang again.

Whoever it was, was fucking persistent, Lithuania thought, pulling himself to his feet. He had counted, what, six rings? No, make that seven, as the bell sounded again.

"All right!" Lithuania grumbled, shuffling to his door and yanking it open.

The blast of cold air from the hall made him vaguely wish he'd put on his robe first. Russia's house had always been cold. He'd be used to it in a moment, though, and his room seemed so far away now, as he was shuffling down the hall. It would be bad manners to make the caller wait any longer, no matter how much he wanted to.

Lithuania yawned as he passed the grand staircase. Lucky Latvia and Estonia, he thought, having rooms _up_stairs.

A cold chill worked its way down his spine – the kind of chill that usually meant Russia was around, but Lithuania knew better as he shuddered and folded his arms across his thin nightshirt. It was only a draft. Russia's house seemed to have more of them lately. Repairs were expensive. Money was tight. And never mind trying to navigate the labyrinth of bureaucracy just to get a little thing, like replacing a window, done. Just thinking about all those forms and paperwork made Lithuania's eye twitch….

He stifled another yawn as he rounded a corner, too preoccupied with his thoughts to notice the phone had stopped ringing.

What he _did_ notice, as he entered the narrow hallway, was that something large was blocking it. Something large in a faded red bathrobe.

Lithuania stopped short. Russia's back was to him, but that didn't mean Russia didn't know he was there. But then again, he might _not_ know. Lithuania could still get away – could still run down the hall, quietly in his bare feet, to the safety of his room.

But something kept him rooted there, rooted to the spot. It was something he couldn't quite place. Poland would say it was his passive aggression. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was.

Or maybe it was something else….

Either way, Lithuania felt his face morph from an expression of shock seeing Russia answer his own phone to one of boredom as he glared at the nation's broad back.

He couldn't make out what Russia was saying – the large nation could be unnervingly quiet when he wanted to. Lithuania leaned against the wall, watching, waiting for the conversation to be over. He should go back to his room, he _really_ should, but….

He was trained. And trained well. Trained to wait for orders. Trained to receive orders. Trained to carry out orders.

So. He would wait.

_C'mon_, Lithuania found himself thinking. _Hurry up. Look around. I'm just right here. Come. On!_

As if on cue, Russia set the receiver back on the hook and spun around. Lithuania didn't even recoil at that action – he had learned to control that reflex.

Russia's eyes narrowed slightly as they fell on Lithuania, leaning languidly against the wall.

"Spying on me, Litva?"

"No. That's the Committee's job," Lithuania answered indolently.

Russia let out a derisive snort. Then, after a pause, "What are you doing here?"

Lithuania's jaw clenched, his face adopting the deadened look he had so meticulously schooled it to wear these past two decades. His insides, though, were positively roiling. He knew if he answered truthfully, that he was here to answer the phone, he would most certainly face Russia's wrath for his incompetence. And no matter how much he lied to him_self_, he _still_ couldn't do it to other people without giving it away. That only left one course of action: countering.

"Who was on the phone?" Lithuania asked.

"No one," Russia ground out, turning so he was now in profile, staring down at the aforementioned device.

Lithuania's brow rose slightly at that. If the caller had been anyone of importance, Russia would surely have backhanded him for slacking in his duties. Russia's answer, however, told Lithuania all he needed to know. Someone Russia didn't want to talk about….

Well.

That could only be one person.

Lithuania felt the bile rise in his throat. He rued the day he called Germany's house to inform the western nation his brother was being held in a Stasi prison. It was meant as a favor, from one Eastern Bloc country to another. He had been riding on a renewed high, a renewed hope, after hearing how Hungary disabled her border defenses, after watching his people join hands with Estonia's and Latvia's in that human chain – and then, scarcely three months later people began pouring through East Berlin into the west in droves. The east was in chaos, Gorbachev couldn't make a decision, and Lithuania waited and hoped – until he could take it no longer and declared himself independent. It was short lived. Russia had dragged him back from the train station kicking and screaming, using his still considerable might to impose sanctions against Lithuania's people – and _he_ had paid dearly, of course.

That had been a week ago. Lithuania's back was still bruised. He had been living out of his suitcase ever since, caught up in some desperate hope.

But Russia….

Russia was still – _still_ – hung up about losing East Germany. It wasn't official. Not yet. But it was only a matter of time, Lithuania knew.

_You have me. I'm right fucking here. You still _insist_ on keeping me here_, Lithuania thought as he watched Russia pull his bathrobe closer around him.

Gilbert – Prussia – East had been with them for so short a time, whereas _he_ had been with Russia since the previous century (not counting, of course, his brief independence following the Great War). Lithuania pressed his lips into a thin line, hating himself for thinking about it, hating himself for wanting to be wanted and not at the same time.

Russia pressed a weary hand against his forehead, rubbing his temple, when something caught his eye.

"What are you still doing here? Go back to bed," he said sharply, rounding on Lithuania once more.

"Certainly. Will there be anything else, _sir?_" Lithuania deadpanned, almost spitting the last word.

"No. Go away. I don't wish to see your face," Russia said, vaguely registering the fact Lithuania had not even flinched.

Slowly, lazily, Lithuania peeled himself off the wallpaper, arms still crossed, and backed down the narrow hall, eyes ever trained on Russia, until he was out of the large nation's reach.

Russia watched him go, watched him disappear around the corner, heading back to his room.

Russia let out a short breath and turned back to the phone. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against the wall, and closed his eyes for a moment.

When he opened them again, he was surprised to see one of his hands had curled around the receiver again, as if to make a phone call….

Russia picked his head up, blinking curiously down at his pale hand against the black plastic. He uncurled his fist, feeling every sinew creak and pop beneath his taut skin. He brought the hand up to his face, then the other, studying them both – the way the muscles moved as he flexed his fingers, how the skin stretched over bone tight in some places and wrinkled in others, his thinning wrists….

He had been strong once.

Now all he felt was old. Old…confused…worn out….

He had been _so_ strong….

But slowly, they would leave (they always did), and slowly, he would weaken….

But.

He was _not_ weak. Not yet.

Russia put his fist through the wall just to be sure.

When he pulled it back out, it was with a kind of amused detachment. He noted the fine coating of powder making his hand look even whiter, the larger chunks of plaster stuck to the bleeding cuts on his knuckles.

He supposed he'd better clean it and ambled off to the kitchen.

Russia half considered waking Lithuania again and have that damn Baltic do his damn job and dress his wounds, but he knew he would have to start doing things for himself sooner or later. The phone call proved that – and Russia was secretly thankful Lithuania had been so useless answering the phone in time. Still, the exchange had…stung. He had never been much good with words anyway….

Well.

Maybe not so much words as…feelings. Those were something he had been taught to bury long ago in favor of instinct. Instinct kept you alive, feelings got you the other thing.

Still, East – Prussia – Gilbert – whoever-the-fuck-he-was wanted answers. Well. One, specifically. And Russia could not disallow him that. He'd feel the same way, if the roles had been reversed.

Russia turned on the kitchen faucet, sticking his hand under the icy flow, watching numbly as the plaster washed away.

When his hand was clean, he examined the cuts on his knuckles. They weren't anything serious, and the blood had started to coagulate in places. He wrapped his hand in a towel and set about rummaging in the cabinets. On a night like this, he normally would have gone straight for the bottle of vodka under the sink, but he had grown tired of its antiseptic taste. He needed something stronger…something bitter. He decided to make chifir'. Russia set the kettle, grabbed six teabags and a cup, and waited for the water to boil, his mind drifting back to that phone call….

One word.

That was it.

One desperate word, crackling through static.

_Why?_ Gilbert had said.

Russia had straightened his back, had inhaled a steadying breath, willing his heart rate to even out. He would not say what had come to mind first – _Because you left me_ – it was too childish, too selfish, would leave Russia exposing a weakness, and it only answered part of Gilbert's question.

_I had no more need of you,_ he had said.

It was far more damaging, but also far more accurate, given the current political situation. His boss had not foreseen the unintended consequences regarding his new policies – but Russia had. It was only a matter of time before the people woke up and realized it too.

Russia had kept East – Prussia – whatever – as a buffer, despite letting him walk away that day. Russia followed his every movement, instructing his officers only to act when Gilbert tried to do something stupid, like Russia knew all too well he would do – such as buying fake travel documents. Keeping Gilbert locked away, a prisoner of his own system, was simply just another strategy – a form of insurance, should the Eastern Bloc fail to collapse and prove all those smug western powers wrong. But amid the growing unrest, the protests, Hungary's unabashed defiance, Russia knew holding on to any hope was futile. East Germany was useless to him. Time for the next move. Like a game of chess. But the world was made up of more than just rules and moves and countermoves. It contained things one could not predict. Emotions were sticky things, especially the ones deeper than the basest level. Russia could not have foreseen, when he got landed with Prussia decades ago, that he would come anywhere close to caring for him.

He could not tell Gilbert that, of course. Could _never_ tell him that. It was too complex, complicated and muddy. And Russia doubted Gilbert would understand anyway….

He had wanted all of Germany. Not just part. But _all_. He wanted to crush that pact-breaking nation _and_ his loud-mouthed brother. He wanted to ensure his own nation, his own people, would never have to face something so devastating ever again. But those damn Allies – those fucking _westerners_ – had other ideas. _They_ were to look after Ludwig (the decent brother, Russia thought bitterly) while _he_ got saddled with Gilbert until Prussia's fate could be decided.

Well.

Russia didn't know what else to do. _Someone_ had to pay. Gilbert would never break – his rebellious nature guaranteed that – but he would _bend._ And Russia knew exactly how to do it. The beatings, the revocation of rights, the captivity, and the unexpected freedoms were all a part of it, all meant to keep Gilbert flexible. And it worked. Gilbert was never loyal to Russia and Russia didn't want him to be. He just wanted to toy with him, to extract his payment for the war whenever he felt like it; and when the Allies finally decided what they would do with Prussia, Russia would gladly wash his hands of the whole thing and kick the white haired nation out the door.

But when Russia returned with his boss from _that_ meeting in February, it was obvious his houseguest would be there for an extended stay. He immediately began devising ways of using Prussia to his advantage.

Russia bent Prussia even more, shaping and molding him into something useful. He _had _to be certain of Prussia's loyalty now. He had to claim it. And didn't he care, sometimes, during their re-education sessions – didn't he care that he may be pushing Gilbert a little too far? Didn't he care that what he saw reflected back in those red eyes sometimes reminded him of what he saw in his own? Maybe. Though at the time, Russia would have denied it. It was only recently, with his boss' new policies, that Russia allowed himself to examine these thoughts….

A shrill whistle broke through his reverie. The teakettle.

Russia poured the boiling water into his cup. He promptly dropped in all six teabags, the hot water leaching out the soluble contents, staining the water a dark, dark brown.

Russia let out a heavy breath, counting the long minutes the tea must steep in his head. He half wanted to run to the phone right then and tell Gilbert everything. But he had his reasons not to. He knew how the world saw him. A tyrant, albeit a weak one. He had to keep up appearances just a little while longer – at least until everything sorted itself out.

But….

Even Russia had to admit, self-preservation was becoming a lame excuse.


End file.
